


John Was Right

by vihistoo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, I Don't Even Know, Kissing in the Lab, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 21:33:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1956900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vihistoo/pseuds/vihistoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly touches everything. She's very tactile, like a child. Constantly running her fingers over everything. </p><p>Everyone.</p><p>What Sherlock wants to know, is why she won't touch him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Was Right

**Author's Note:**

> I really don't know why I wrote this...of course, I do. Who do I think I'm kidding?

Sherlock's brain, as he once described it, is a hard drive. Essentially, a supercomputer. 

Molly Hooper has become a virus.

Maybe that's too harsh.

But, there really is no other way to describe how she has infected his thoughts. He finds himself distracted, brain slowing down and turning itself to her, the image of her warm, brown eyes, the sweet smell that clings to her skin. Perfume, Sherlock wonders, or her natural scent? 

He constantly sees her bright, cheery jumpers in the corner of his mind when picking out his own clothes, imagines how they would feel against him, under his palm. Whatever she had worn would still be warm, carrying the heat of her skin when he would tug it off her, desperate to feel the silky-

Do you understand now?

Sherlock drags his eyes back down to the microscope, feigning interest in whatever he was studying. In all honesty, he had forgotten. He acquaints himself with the thing under his scrutiny again.

Ah, that's right. He was observing a smear of lipstick. He is quite sure the killer had somehow merged the woman's lipstick with some type of poison, slowly killing her everytime she dolled herself up, seeping into her bloodstream with every swipe of her tongue, soaking into her skin. Brilliant, really. 

He looks over to John, half expecting to hear, "Bit not good, Sherlock,", but John is quiet. Since the Fall, their relationship had been a bit strained, remaining anger, (completely on John's part), making every interaction tense, and if Sherlock were not a sociopath, whose emotions are quite shallow, at best, he would say this made him feel quite...sad. De(re)jected. (And he is quite sad, but he won't admit that to himself, much less to John)

Molly steps in again, carrying his, and John's coffee. Sherlock watches her closely, watches as she skims the pocket of her lab coat, then brushes the table on her way to John. She taps John on the shoulder, leaving her hand there as she sets the cup into his hands. 

"Ta," John says brightly, and Molly nods and smiles lightly, squeezing his shoulder gently before moving to Sherlock. He waits expectantly for her delicate hand to drop onto his shoulder, for the warmth to stain through the thin material of his dress shirt. Sherlock doesn't look up from the microscope, but he is acutely aware of her precise location in reference to him. Instead, she sets the cup next to him, and moves away quickly. 

Sherlock frowns to himself. After the Fall, when he had stumbled dazedly with Molly to her flat, she had had no difficulty with touching him, gently cleaning the blood that did not belong to him out of his hair, his eyes. She taped his ribs and realigned his shoulder easily, all while maintaining skin-to-skin contact with him. Sherlock remembers with complete clarity the comfort he found in her soft touch, the gentle skim of her fingers over him. He remembers Molly placing him in her bed, making to leave before he felt a world-tilting desperation to have her stay. He had gripped her wrist with bruising strength, making her yelp. Somehow, she had known, because Molly  _always_ knows, and she had climbed in next to him, allowing Sherlock to place his head on her soft belly, moving her lithe fingers to card through his curls, tugging slightly on the strands, sending shivers down his spine. Exhaustion overcame him, and he had fallen asleep.

He woke early, the barest hint of sunlight streaming into her bedroom. Molly's small figure had shielded him, cocooned him. He looked down her stomach to the slight curve of her thighs, the rise of her knees, the straight line of her tibia, until he reached her cotton-candy painted toes. She had tucked him in, falling into slumber over the blankets. Leaving quietly would be difficult. She wrapped her arms around him, her fingers linked together on his shoulder. Embarrassingly, he had wrapped himself around her leg, leaving a hand to rest on her thigh. He briefly had counted three freckles in a row on her thigh, before he used that hand to move Molly's. She hadn't stirred, and he had slowly slid away from her, having to slink onto the floor to avoid shaking the bed. 

He had gotten up slowly, but the floor creaked, quite loudly. He knew the exact moment Molly had woken, and he had turned to...to what? He still didn't know. She sat up and blinked at him, sleep dulling her thoughts, but she knew what he was doing. She had rested a hand on where his head had laid, and her eyes were filled with pain. His chest ached, and he had yearned to go back to her, to wrap himself around her until they had become one mass, one body, but he did nothing, and Molly laid down again, and turned away from him, robbing him of the sight of her eyes, instead giving him her back.

He didn't know why, but having Molly, _loyal, caring, sweet, Molly_ , turn her back to him, had hurt in a way he was startlingly unfamiliar with.

Sherlock had moved quickly out of her room, grabbing the bag on her couch and changing into the clothes meant to disguise him. Jeans, and a generic t-shirt, soon covered with a hoodie boasting some sports team. A hat had been next, but Molly's soft footsteps stopped him. She said nothing at first, but walked to him, taking the hat from his hands. Her eyes had been shiny, and her would never forget the tenderness with which she had pulled the beanie down on his head, gently brushing his curls away and tucking them under the fabric, her fingers lingering on his temple. Sherlock knew she was waiting for words to come to her, and he had waited, looking down on her small frame.

"Sherlock, just...be careful? Alright? You, you have John, and he needs you to come back for him. Y-you're his best friend. And Mrs. Hudson, she loves you too, like a s-son. Lestrade might be a bit...rough, but he cares about you too. They all do. We...we all care about you," Molly had said, Sherlock's heart wrenching with every break and crack in her soft voice. "Just remember that you have people wh-who need you to come back safely, o-okay?"

Molly had looked up at him pleadingly, brown eyes wide and shiny, silent tears running down her cheeks, and he had wanted to wipe them away. He had nodded, instead.

"Okay," he had echoed, the word sounding odd coming from him, but he had said it. For her.

Now, Sherlock turns his head slightly from the microscope to watch Molly. She stands silently, lost in thought, both hands clasped around an empty flask. He follows the soft curve of her jaw to the line of her neck, swan-like, to her collarbones.  He watches as she put the flask down, running her fingers briefly on the edge of the counter.  

"An experiment," he mutters.

Molly turns. "Hm?"

Sherlock shakes his head curtly. Molly understands and shares a knowing look with John.

John. Who she touched. Touches. She touches everybody, but him.

He's seen her kiss John's cheek, and Mary's and Mrs.Hudson's. Squeeze their hands, brush against their shoulders. She's even touched Mycroft. Mycroft! He had stopped by, (which means he intruded, again), interrupting an experiment. Mycroft had asked for tea, and Molly tapped his elbow on the way to the kitchen, as he was standing in the way. She's hugged everyone, except Mycroft. (Sherlock revels in the image of a red-faced, sputtering Mycroft unable to comprehend that level of intimacy).

Sherlock has hugged people. John had punched him, then held him close when he returned. Mrs.Hudson had given him a sharp slap on the shoulder before gathering him into her motherly embrace. Lestrade, even, had slipped an arm around his shoulder and clapped him once on the back. Mycroft had settled for a quick handshake and a sharp nod.

Sherlock wonders what hugging Molly is like. She probably holds you tightly, burrowing into your body, sharing her warmth. 

He feels a need to understand why she doesn't touch him.

Because he is Sherlock Holmes, he sets up an experiment.

Step 1. Get rid of John.

Step 2. Papercut.

Step 3. Alert Molly.

Step 4. Resolve problem.

Step 5. Relax in one's own brilliance.

"John, I need you to go to Baker Street and collect the blue folder on the desk," Sherlock says, before remembering it's John. "Please,"

John sighs, exasperated, but nods nonetheless, muttering under his breath before donning his coat and exiting the lab.

Sherlock scans the papers to his right, noting the angle and speed at which he will have to slide his finger across the paper's edge. He reaches quickly, and accurately, effectively splitting the skin on his finger. One ruby drops onto the paper.

"Molly!"

Molly's head snaps up and her brown eyes focus on him, then his finger, and she flusters slightly, before nodding jerkily and half-jogging to her office to get a bandage, in all likelihood.

"Quickly!" he calls after her. "Don't want to contaminate the lab!"

He hears her footsteps quicken. He grins to himself, examining the small cut. It burns, but then again, small cuts generally do, and he's had worse.

Molly returns, cheeks flushed slightly and breath coming quickly. Sherlock holds out his hand, the hurt finger pointed towards her. She places down her things, gently taking his hand in hers. Her hand is so small, the skin smooth. His hand fits perfectly in both of hers. She takes a look at the cut, tenderly wiping away the small amount of blood with a swathe of cotton. Sherlock watches her as she works, taking in the quick focus of her eyes, the steadiness of her hands as she smooths cream over his cut. Molly takes a bandage and wraps it carefully around his finger, tugging slightly to make sure it isn't too loose.

"Why do you not touch me?" 

Molly looks up, confused, even as two red circles bloom on her cheeks. "W-what?"

Sherlock cocks his head. "You don't touch me. Why?"

She quickly drops his hand, shaking her head and shifting on her feet. "I don't-it's just that-why are you asking?"

"You pat people's hands, squeeze their shoulders, hug them, and kiss them on the cheek,"

Molly's brow furrows. "...Yes, I suppose I do,"

"You don't do any of these things to me," Sherlock states.

"Well, I know that you don't appreciate touch, so I-I was just respecting that,"

Sherlock frowns. "You don't have to,"

Molly blushes, shifting her weight, before reaching over to awkwardly pat his hand. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, clearly indicating for her to continue. Molly sucks in a breath, and takes a moment to remember what Sherlock had said. It's hard to think though, when he's being so blunt, so forward. 

"Shoulder," Sherlock reminds her.

Molly nods once, quickly and jerkily, placing her delicate hand on his shoulder, feeling the wiry sinew beneath, squeezing gently. She breathes in shakily when he flexes slightly under her hand. It's just as Sherlock had imagined it, the soft warmth of her hand soaks through his shirt, bleeding into his skin.

She slides her hand off his shoulder, waiting for direction.

"Hug," Sherlock says. When did he start whispering? Must be the tense environment. He's only reacting because of unconscious psychological cues from Molly. Yes, that's it.

She approaches him slowly. Sherlock does nothing, his arms hanging limply by his sides, fingers twitching slightly. Molly steps in between his legs, almost at his height, Sherlock's nine inches reduced, in thanks to the stool he is still sitting on. She wraps her arms around his shoulders, one hand coming up to touch the hair at the nape of his neck, the other resting between his shoulderblades. Sherlock stiffens slightly, unsure. He feels her breath puff out against his neck, and he instinctually encases her in his arms, pulling her closer to him. Molly's scent fills his nose, lightly floral and sweet. He turns his head slightly to rest his cheek on her hair. Molly sighs and relaxes further into his arms, one hand briefly rubbing his back, the other moving to cup the back of his head comfortingly. They stay in each other's arms for minutes, just breathing in each other's scent, soaking in each other's warmth. 

Molly pulls away slightly, and Sherlock frowns, finding that he had enjoyed her hug, to his confusion. His hands come to rest on her waist, thumbs rubbing the curve of her hipbone. He is about to remind her of the kiss, but he closes his mouth when she take the hand from his back and cups his face, running her fingertips over his cheekbone. She leans in, and Sherlock's breath stops. 

Her eyes flicker from his lips to his eyes, and so do Sherlock's. She's a hairsbreadth away when she turns her head slightly and kisses his cheek, lips lingering softly on his skin. Sherlock sucks in a breath when electricity seems to surge from the spot. When The Woman kissed his cheek, he felt lust, but not this, this awakening of every nerve in his body. He thinks it's the knowledge that it's not just anyone, it's  _Molly._

She eyes him curiously, leaning in again to kiss his cheek softly, closer to his mouth. Sherlock shivers as her breath fans across his cheek. She barely moves, her lips skimming his skin as she moves to kiss the corner of his mouth.  As she moves away, Sherlock turns his head, and she stops, eyes wide and pupils dilating. He leans in slightly, brushes his lips against hers. Molly breaths in sharply and presses against him, pushing her lips against his firmly. She moves slowly, giving Sherlock time to react, because his thought process had stopped when Molly's lips touched his. They part when he stands up, and Molly keeps her eyes on his shirt, cheeks blushing furiously, hands moving from his shoulders to rest on his chest. Sherlock towers over her at his full height. He brings a hand from her waist, cupping the back of her neck and moving up, over the back of her head until he grabs her ponytail. She looks up at him, and he pulls sharply, forcing her head up. She gasps, then moans, eyes fluttering shut. 

Sherlock takes the tie out, and fists his hand in her hair, holding her in place as he slants his mouth over hers. Molly slides a hand in his hair, holding him as tightly as he holds her, and he groans, because  _her_  hand in  _his_ hair is the best thing he's ever felt. She slips her tongue into his mouth, and he presses her against the table, curving over her as he assaults her mouth. Molly responds in kind, pulling his hair and raking her nails over his chest. 

"Well, it's about bloody time!"

Sherlock breaks away from Molly, turning to glare at John. She squeaks and buries her head in his shoulder. John grins widely, before he waggles his eyebrows. Molly slips away from Sherlock, turning her gaze down as she moves to the sink, busying herself in cleaning more flasks. John winks as he hands Sherlock the unneeded folder. Sherlock rolls his eyes and tosses the folder on the table, turning back to his microscope. Molly and Sherlock sneak glances at each other, and when Sherlock finds what he needed, he turns to leave, kissing Molly soundly before he goes. John practically skips on his way out.

Because he is Sherlock Holmes, he set up an experiment. And because he set up an experiment, he has come to a conclusion.

John was right.


End file.
